


complicated chemistry

by LovelyLessie



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-28 13:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: Phil's not really sure about this whole "treatment" thing, but since it turns out getting better isn't as simple as finding a happy ending, maybe it's worth a shot, at least. (Set ~eight months after February 2.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: discussion of suicide, referenced (prescription) drug abuse

The waiting room is small and stuffy and smells like a closed flower shop, with a fish tank set into one wall and the others all lined with flavorless abstract art. A sense of dread presses heavily on Phil’s shoulders as he enters, and he grimaces, turning up the collar of his coat. He does not want to be here. He didn’t want to come in the first place, and the only reason he doesn’t turn and walk out before he even sits down is that his nerves are easier to swallow than his pride.

He slinks across the room to slump down in one of the ugly vinyl-covered chairs in the back corner, keeping his head down. The only other people here are a woman maybe a little older than him with her nose buried in a magazine and a surly-looking boy who must be in college, neither of which have spared him a glance.

At least there’s that, he thinks gloomily, hunching his shoulders as he looks around the room. This is bad enough without anyone recognizing him - though he’s sure the receptionist who checked him in looked at him strangely. Probably trying to figure out if he’s that Philip Connors, or if by some wild coincidence there just happen to be two people with his name in Pittsburgh.

There are footsteps in the hall, and he glances up to see a woman enter the room. “Justin Harper?” she says. The surly boy grunts and gets to his feet. Phil goes back to staring blankly at the fish tank, watching a bug-eyed goldfish ram itself into the glass.

Pride is starting to seem less important the longer he sits here, to be honest, and the seventy-five bucks he’d pay to cancel isn’t such a high price to avoid…whatever this is going to be.

He can’t go through with it, he decides, and moves to stand up, but just as he gets to his feet a man in glasses appears from the hallways, and says, “Philip?”

“Oh, God,” he mutters. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Dr Weltstein,” the man says, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Uh huh,” he says, unable to muster any more enthusiasm. He should never have agreed to this, but it’s a little too late now.

“Come on back,” the doctor says, and for a moment he seriously considers just bolting for the exit. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets and trudges after Dr Weltstein.

The office is just as crowded and stuffy as the waiting room, but at least it doesn’t have the same cloying scent of dust and dying roses that was smothering him so badly. He sucks a breath in through his teeth and lets it out as he drops onto the sofa.

“So, what brings you in today?” Dr Weltstein asks as he sits down in the armchair across the room with a pen and a clipboard in hand.

“Uh,” Phil says, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. I guess I…have…”

He trails off, grimacing, and casts the doctor a sideways look.

“Depression?” he says finally, and looks away.

“Okay,” Dr Weltstein says, his pen scratching on the clipboard. “I’m glad you came in to see me. Have you seen a therapist about this yet?”

He frowns. “Was I… supposed to?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr Weltstein says. “I recommend it for most of my patients, since the majority find a combination of medication and cognitive therapy to be the most effective, but it’s not a requirement.”

“Okay,” Phil says. “Uh, good. I mean - look, my most recent experience with doctors haven’t been great, so I’m a little… skeptical, let’s say. About this whole…thing.”

“Understandable,” the doctor says, nodding. “We’ll start by talking a little about what you need, and go from there. Did you have any other concerns you wanted to go over?”

He shrugs.

“Okay,” the doctor says. “And have you taken any kind of medication for this in the past?”

“Not… for depression,” he says carefully.

“For something else?” Weltstein asks.

“Uh, Xanax,” he says.

“Sure,” the doctor says. “Do you know what diagnosis you have?”

Phil stares at him blankly. “Um…”

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Weltstein says. “I’ll take a look in the system later. Let’s talk about that first, and then we’ll get into your depression and see what might help you.”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly.

“About how often do you take Xanax?” the doctor asks.

“Once or twice a day?” he says. “Maybe more on really, really bad days.”

Dr Weltstein raises his eyebrows, peering at Phil over his glasses. “And this is every day?”

“I mean, not every day,” he says. “It’s supposed to be as needed. Some days I do okay without it, it’s just when things get…”

He gestures vaguely. Dr Weltstein frowns and makes a note.

“Have you tried any other medications?” he asks. “Anything prescribed daily?”

“I mean, I took Adderall in high school,” Phil says. “But that was, like, twenty five years ago.”

“Alright,” the doctor says, making more notes on his clipboard. “But never an anxiolytic?”

“A what, now,” he asks flatly.

“A medication to treat anxiety,” Weltstein clarifies.

“Okay, well,” Phil says, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t say I have anxiety.”

The doctor gives him a look over the rims of his glasses. “Philip -“

“It’s just Phil,” he cuts in.

“Phil,” concedes Weltstein. “I understand you’ve had unpleasant experiences, but it’s going to be difficult to treat you if you won’t at least talk in general terms about your mental health.”

He sighs through his teeth and tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “Right,” he agrees, and swallows hard. “Okay. Uh. Fine.” He screws his eyes shut, trying to steel his nerve. “Depression and anxiety, then.”

“And you’re managing your attention-deficit well enough without medication?”

He shrugs. “I guess so?”

“It sounds to me like you’ve been taking Xanax to manage a generalized anxiety disorder,” the doctor says. “I think what would be best for you is to stop taking it for now.”

Phil laughs sharply. “Sorry, what?”

“Benzodiazepines lose effectiveness over time,” Dr Weltstein says, “and they’re not really meant for daily use. I want to start you on something that’s more effective day to day, and we can talk about you going back on Xanax or another medication for serious episodes if you need it.”

“You’re crazy,” Phil tells him. “I need it. I’m a wreck otherwise, things get too fast, or too big, or too much and I do - weird neurotic shit. I go nuts.”

“If that’s happening on a daily basis, I want you on a long-term medication, rather than a fast-acting as-needed one,” the doctor says patiently. “That will help manage your anxiety on a consistent basis, and if you’re still having panic attacks -“

“They’re not panic attacks, it’s just -“

“- you can take a stronger sedative, less frequently, with better effect -“

“Listen,” Phil shouts, leaning forward. “Dr Weltstein. I’ve been taking it since I was, like, twenty after I fucking lost it halfway through a semester. I yelled at my roommate and wrecked half of my stuff. I skipped class for three days straight to play Megaman and couldn’t eat anything except popcorn. You cannot take me off that medication.”

“Phil, I’m trying to find a solution that’s going to help you more,” the doctor says, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “But I need you to work with me, here. Can you do that?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, resting his face in his hands. “Can’t I keep taking it while I start a new medication?” he asks, peeking between his fingers.

“If you’ve been taking it daily for so long, I’m not going to take you off of it cold-turkey,” Weltstein says. “I want you to go a week only taking it once a day, and then go down to half a dose for a few days before you stop taking it.”

“And you’re going to start me on something to help after that?” he asks.

“Well, I want to talk a little bit about your depression to help decide what will help the most,” Weltstein says. “Especially since you’ve never been treated for it before. How long has this been going on?”

“Uh,” he says, unsure how to answer that question. He can’t exactly explain how long it’s been when it was only since February. Although -

“Just an estimate is fine,” Dr Weltstein says.

“A few years,” he lies.

“Any family history?” the doctor asks, looking down at his clipboard.

“Oh, boy,” Phil mutters. “Uh, my mom, yeah. Since I was a kid.”

Dr Weltstein nods. “And any thoughts of self harm or suicide?”

He grimaces and balls up his fists, nails biting into his palms and keeping him grounded. “Um. Yes, I guess.”

“Any past attempts?”

Oh, Lord, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. He swallows hard. “A couple,” he mutters without looking up.

“I understand this can be hard to talk about,” Dr Weltstein says. “Can you tell me about what happened?”

He shrugs. “Uh, took sleeping pills once. Drowned - well, tried to drown myself.” God, he must sound either stupid or crazy. Probably both. “Slit my wrists. Not very well, obviously.” He realizes how that sounds and quickly corrects himself. “I mean, which is good. Still here. And doing a lot better, uh, for - for the most part.”

Except for how a couple of weeks ago he had a breakdown and almost took a high dive off the top of his building, but overall. In general. Most of the time.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” the doctor says. “But I am concerned about the risks of starting an antidepressant. They can increase the chance of suicide, and given your history, I think we should be a little extra careful while you get adjusted to it.”

“Right,” he says. “So…”

“You live alone, Phil?” Dr Weltstein asks.

He frowns. “Uh-huh.”

“Hm,” the doctor muses. “Do you have any friends or family you could stay with while you’re starting a new medication? I’ll try to see you shortly after you start, and we have staff on call for emergencies, but it would probably be safest for you if you had someone around.”

“Um,” Phil says, frowning. “Can I get back to you on that one?”

“Sure,” Dr Weltstein agrees, and gives him a kind smile. “I want you off the Xanax before we start something new, anyways. I’d like you to come back in two weeks, after you taper off it, alright?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, reluctantly. The last thing he wants to do is have to keep coming back here. But he did promise he’d see someone, and try some kind of medication to see if it helps.

Hopefully Rita is willing to be part of the experiment, since she was so insistent he go through with this.

“Do you have enough Xanax now to do what we talked about?” the doctor says. “I can write you a temporary prescription just to get you through two weeks if you need.

“I think I have it,” he sighs.

“Alright,” Weltstein agrees. “If not, give me a call and I’ll put in an order. Is there anything else you wanted to cover before we wrap up for today?”

Phil shakes his head. “I’ll, uh…” he says as he gets up. “See you in two weeks, I guess.”

With that, he puts up his collar again and hurries out of the room as quickly as he can without running, desperate to get outside for a breath of fresh air and get home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: in depth description of panic episode

“Hey,” Rita says when he comes back into the studio for the seven o’clock, and waves. “How was your appointment?”

“Oh, yeah, it was great,” he says through his teeth. “I laid on the fancy couch and talked about my _feelings_.”

“Ooookay,” she says slowly. “What’s wrong?

“Wrong, nothing’s _wrong_ ,” he mutters as he sheds his coat. “It was fine. He asked me questions and told me to come back in two weeks. That’s all.”

“Phil,” she says.

“What?” he snaps, turning to face her, and immediately regrets it. He shouldn’t yell at her, he’s not angry at her. He’s angry at -

At -

He’s just -

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking at the floor. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” she says, and the softness in her voice makes him feel even worse. “What happened?”

He shakes his head. His hands are shaking. Grimacing, he shoves them in his jacket pockets. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he says. “I need to, uh, I’ve got…”

His heart is racing, hammering against the inside of his chest so hard it hurts, and it’s making his head ache. He curls his fingers around the bottle of pills tucked inside his jacket and wonders if he shouldn’t put off the doctor’s instructions for tomorrow, instead.

 _Pull yourself together, Phil_ , he thinks. Takes a shaky breath through his teeth. Lets it out in a rush. Oh, God, how’s he going to get through three weeks like this?

“I’ll see you after,” he says, and heads for the back corner of the studio, painfully aware that she’s watching him the whole time.

 

He stumbles his way through the broadcast and probably looks like a complete idiot, twitching and fidgeting and tripping over his own tongue as he talks. He can’t concentrate; can’t keep his mind on what he’s saying or what he should be doing with his hands. His head is spinning so badly he thinks he might pass out.

“Okay, can we try that second half again,” Tim says, waving a hand. “Starting from the five-day, Phil.”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” he says. His chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe, but he grits his teeth and straightens his back, glancing at the monitor to remember his place.

“And three - two - one,” Tim counts down, and Phil puts on his most winning smile.

“Next couple of days are going to be clear as a glass of water,” he says, “and even colder, nighttime lows in the upper twenties. Uh, there’s… going to…there’s…” He’s lost his place again; he struggles to remember what comes next.

“Cut,” Tim calls. “Jesus, Phil, what’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t - I’m not -“ he manages helplessly, shoving his hands in his pockets and digging his nails into his palms until it hurts. “Sorry, shit, uh -“

“Pick up where you left off,” Tim says, annoyed. “If you remember.”

He looks at the monitor, biting his tongue. “Uh, cold front, cold front on Saturday,” he says. “Ready.”

“Three, two, one - “

He catches his breath. “Cold front moving in on Saturday is gonna bring in a chance of snow, sleet, or freezing rain with these cloudy skies this weekend, so, uh, bundle up, folks, it’s - it’s gonna be pretty chilly out there. Ummmmm, I’m Phil Connors, and that’s Good Weather.”

“What the hell was that?” Tim asks. “You look like a damn cat up a tree.” Into his headset, he says, “Go back to the radar. Phil, turn it over to Josh for the five-day, will someone get him in here -“

“I’ll do it again,” Phil snaps, glowering. “I’m fine, I can do it again, start from the same place and -“

“Redo your transition and turn it over to Josh,” Tim says firmly. “Let’s go. Three, two -“

“Cold front moving in on Saturday,” Phil says instead. He’s not even sure why he’s doing it, just that he has to get through the broadcast, he has to pull himself together and get through this.

“Cut!” Tim shouts. “Phil, for God’s sake. Do we have time for Josh to redo the segment from the start?”

“Not really,” someone says over the headset. “You’ve got twelve minutes.”

“Just let me finish it,” Phil says. “I’m right here, it’s just a little more -“

“No,” Tim snaps. “One line. Turning it over to Josh for the five-day, now. Three, two, one.”

He forces a grin, trying to rewind mentally to where he was at the end of the storm watch. “Aaand let’s turn it over to Josh Darnell for the five-day forecast. I’m Phil Connors, see you tomorrow.”

“Finally,” Tim says. “Go on, get out of here. Josh, I need you on camera in twenty seconds, get moving.”

Phil stumbles out of the way and leans against the back wall, trying to steady himself and failing miserably. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t - he can’t -

He needs to sit down, he realizes, before he collapses in the studio. He needs to sit down and get away from the lights and the noise and the _people_ so he can calm down. He needs more Xanax, but even if he takes one now, what happens tomorrow, and the day after, and the day - ?

Shaking his head, he crosses the studio and ducks into the back stairwell.

He runs down the stairs, one hand on the railing to keep his balance, and ducks into the narrow space underneath them at the base of the stairwell, burying his face in his hands as he sits down with his back to the wall. His breath comes ragged and shallow and he can’t seem to slow it; his heart is hammering in his throat and in his ears, drowning everything else out. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He can’t do it. He can’t do this. He’s losing his mind already, and it’s only going to be harder as the week goes on. And the next week. And the week after. God, he can’t even hold himself together for a day, let alone almost a month.

His throat chokes up and he bites down on his hand to keep himself from sobbing. Stupid, he thinks, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He feels pathetic enough without _crying_ over it.

Somewhere above him a door opens and closes, and he curls up on himself, biting his lip and trying to be silent. If he doesn’t make a sound, no one will think to look back here behind the stairs and see him like this. Footsteps echo against the walls, running down in a hurry towards him, and he screws his eyes shut.

“Phil?” calls a voice, and he looks up again to see Rita standing in front of him, holding his coat in both hands and looking concerned.

“Go away,” he mutters into his hands. “I don’t want…”

Instead she comes closer and kneels on the floor next to him, draping his coat over his shoulders. “Hey,” she says softly. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” he says hollowly, and then sobs, despite his best efforts not to. Fuck.

“Do you need your meds?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Can’t take them,” he says. “Doctor wants me to stop.”

“Why?” she asks, resting her hand on his arm. “Is he getting you something new?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says. “Not until I’m off of this. And then I - I have to find someone to stay with, uh, before he’ll give me - there needs to be someone to, uh, make sure it doesn’t kill me -“

“ _What?_ ” she asks, frowning.

“I mean, not the medicine,” he corrects himself quickly. “The, the, he said it can, uh, get worse, before it gets better, so he doesn’t want - because of my, ah, history of…”

He waves his hand vaguely and looks away.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m - I’m not really...thinking straight.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Is there anything I can do?”

He shakes his head. “What would you do?”

“I could get you water,” she says. “Or take you home. Or just sit here with you until you calm down, if that’s what you want.”

“If you want to,” he says. Her hand on his arm is some comfort, at least; he’s able to breathe more normally now, and his pulse isn’t quite as rapid.

She moves over next to him, right against his side, and he leans against her.

“Sorry,” he says again after a moment.

“Cut that out,” she scolds him gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except for how it’s my fault you’re hiding under the back steps sitting on this dirty floor,” he sighs.

She reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. “Not your fault,” she says. “I’m helping you because I want to help, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, and squeezes her hand.

“So your next appointment is after you stop taking the Xanax?” she asks after a moment. “And he’ll start you on something new then?”

“Only if I find someone to crash with for a couple of weeks,” he says. “I can’t exactly go to Cleveland, can I?”

“Why would you go to Cleveland?” she asks. “I can stay with you.”

“Because that’s where -“ he begins, and then the rest of what she said catches up to him. “Wait, _what_?”

“It’s just the first few weeks you’re on the new medication, right?” she asks. “I’ll stay at your place and keep an eye on you.”

“You’d do that?” he asks softly, and swallows.

“Well, I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to,” she points out. “If you need me to I can stick around while you’re tapering too. Just in case you need anything.”

He laughs shakily and feels tears spring to his eyes. “You don’t have to do that,” he manages. “It’s, uh, it’s my own…”

“Phil,” she says, cutting him off. “Didn’t we have this conversation?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I just…”

He can’t find a way to finish that, so he just throws his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. She hugs him back just as tight, and if she notices that he starts to cry a little, she doesn’t point it out.

“Come on,” she tells him softly, rubbing his shoulders with one hand. “Let’s get you back home.”


	3. Chapter 3

He steps out onto the balcony, shivering in the cold breeze, and leans against the railing to look over the street. It’s not as pretty as the riverside view, especially on an icy fall night dressed in fog, but the thought of going up to the roof even just for the view makes his stomach turn. And anyways, in the mist the haze of streetlights and cars passing by below turns 7th into a stream of white-gold light pouring out onto Duquesne, rather than just a busy road leading to the edge of downtown.

He feels better, mostly, now that he’s home, and the cold helps clear his head, even if it does make him shiver even though his coat. He breathes into his cupped hands to warm up his fingers and pulls out his phone, biting his tongue as he looks at the contact screen.

He doesn’t actually know what he’s going to say, but for some reason the flutter of uncertainty in his chest is quieter than he expected. He’s not calm, but nor is he on the verge of panicking again.

Taking a sharp breath to steel himself, he hits call and rests his arm against the railing while he listens to it ring.

“Phil?” asks his mother’s voice on the other end after a few moments. “What is it? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, his throat tight. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m okay. Uh… how are you?”

“I’m alright,” she replies. “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to talk.” He looks down at the street and swallows. “I was, um, thinking about you earlier. I mean, I had an appointment, and the doctor asked about you, so I…”

“What kind of appointment?” she asks. “Are you sure you’re alright? Are you sick?”

“No, no, I’m okay, really,” he says, and then considers what he’s saying. “Well - I don’t know. It’s, uh, it’s been…”

He swallows hard and tips his head back to look up at the sky.

“I had a bad couple of weeks,” he says finally. “I’m doing better now, but it was rough for a little bit.”

“I wish you’d tell me these things,” she says quietly. “I worry about you, never hearing from you.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I know. I’m - I’m trying to be better about it.” Part of him wants to tell her not to worry so much, but he thinks about looking off the top of the roof at the highway and feels too guilty to say it. It feels too much like a lie.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I actually, uh… I guess I’m going to start seeing a psychiatrist. Or, I mean, at least, I’m going to see him for a little while. To see if there’s any...thing...that’ll help.”

“Oh, Phil,” she says, her voice shaking a little. “What’s been going on?”

He hunches his shoulders, slouching against the railing. “I’ve been… kind of depressed, I guess,” he says. “Probably for a while now. It got worse, um - last winter.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues, “It’s been kind of up and down. Mostly up, I’ve, uh, I’ve felt better most of this spring and summer. It’s just gotten - harder - the past few weeks, so, I thought maybe I should see someone.” Okay, so it wasn’t his idea, but still.

“I’m glad you did,” she says, and her voice is so warm and sincere it chases the cold from his shoulders. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” he says. “I mean, I think so. He wants me to stop taking Xanax for a while and try something else, but he’s, uh… he’s gonna wait a couple weeks before actually starting anything new. Til I’m off this one, I guess.”

“Keep in touch so I know how you’re doing while you’re working with him,” she says. “Changing medications is hard sometimes.”

He laughs at that, surprising even himself. “Yeah, it’s already hard and I haven’t even started.”

“You said you were alright,” she says, a little sharply.

“I am,” he says quickly. “I, uh, freaked out a little earlier, but I’m good now, it’s fine.”

“Hmm,” she says skeptically, and he grimaces, waiting for her to press him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just says, “Be careful, okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m trying,” he sighs.

“And take care of yourself,” she adds. “If you need to take time off work for a few days, do that. Your health is more important.”

“Mom, I’m not a kid,” he complains, but he’s glad for the reminder. Maybe it’ll be harder to let himself slip if he knows there will be two people disappointed by it. After a moment, he adds, “Anyways, I’m going to have someone staying with me to make sure I don’t do anything too crazy.” It occurs to him a second after he says it that that _might_ come off as a little antagonistic, and he quickly corrects himself. “I mean, if I don’t react well to, uh…”

“That’s a good idea,” she says, and pauses. “Getting new medications would have been a lot easier for me if your dad had been able to help out like that.”

“Yeah,” he says, and swallows. “Guess I’m pretty lucky.” He’d been thinking the same, but he wishes she hadn’t said it. The feeling that he must be doing something _wrong_ has been nagging at him all afternoon, sharp as a splinter lodged somewhere in the back of his head or a dark corner of his heart, but he’s been trying not to examine it too closely, and hearing his father mentioned out loud casts a sudden harsh light on the truth he’d rather forget.

“I’m really proud of you,” she says, cutting his train of thought short. “It must have been really hard to go see someone.”

His throat chokes up and he clenches his fists. “Thanks, Mom,” he manages. “That, uh…that means a lot.”

He thinks about telling her what happened, about the nightmares and the breakup and the moment on the roof, but he doesn’t want her to worry. He’s doing better now. That’s what matters.

“I guess I shouldn’t keep you up anymore,” he says instead. “It’s getting late.”

“I’m glad you called,” she says warmly. “Keep in touch, Phil. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’ll try,” he says. “Thanks for, uh, listening. Night.”

“Goodnight,” she says, and he waits until he hears the line drop to set down his phone and climb to his feet to head back inside.


End file.
